“Uncle Nagash isn’t some villain! He’s a hero! He just fought the Demon King with me—right there’s the corpse—and you can’t lay a hand on him!” Her voice rang like a brass bell in a storm.

The Heretic Inquisitors never saw Stini’s lunge coming, like hawks startled by a thrown stone under a noon sun.

She drove her blows into their joints, sharp as pebbles snapping reeds; nonlethal, but enough to tear a momentary gap like a rip in canvas.

She slipped through the ring, a swallow through a fence, spread her arms, and stood before Nagash like a small shield in moonlight.

“Step aside, Hero. This is Heretic Inquisition business, and it’s not your concern,” a voice cut cold as winter rain.

“But he did fight the Demon King with me—the ‘Excess’ Demon King—the body’s still warm like a dying ember.”

Maki gave the corpse of “Excess” a flat glance, as brief as a shadow crossing water, then said without a flicker, “Not just that one.”

“Counting this one, Nagash has slain four Demon Kings: ‘Stagnation,’ ‘Mockery,’ ‘Heaviness,’ and this ‘Excess’,” his words fell like stones in a well.

“Uncle Nagash, you’re that amazing—haha—then can’t we sit down and talk, like rain cooling hot dust?”

“But so what—earlier I told your companion Andor about Nagash’s danger,” Maki said, voice smooth as a blade on silk.

He adjusted his pointed cowl; in the afternoon sun, its brim cast a heavy shade that swallowed his chill gaze like night swallowing a lamp.

His polished steel claws flashed warm sunlight, yet looked icy as hoarfrost on iron, mirroring the killing intent rolling off him like winter wind.

“Even if Nagash slew four Demon Kings, so what? Good is good, evil is evil; you don’t mix night and dawn,” he said like tolling bronze.

“Even if an evil man does good, he can’t hide a heart bent toward evil,” his verdict fell like a judge’s hammer in thunder.

“What did Uncle Nagash do wrong? What sin needs death?” Stini’s breath hitched like a bird trapped in a snare.

“His sins are blaspheming statues and desecrating temples,” the words were cold as sleet on stone.

“I admit I did those, and only those,” Nagash cut in with a free smile, easy as wind on grass, yet sharp as flint.

“To kill me for that—isn’t that too much? Can the Divine not bear a grain of sand in their eye?” his laugh flickered like firelight.

“Don’t twist it. You did it to preach your falsehood,” Maki replied, voice flat as a frozen pond.

“Other than striking at the Divine, I’ve never killed a man, never harmed my kin, not even an Inquisitor,” Nagash’s tone was steady as an anvil.

“I even risked my life to fell Demon Kings that plague the world—yet the Divine still can’t stomach me?” His eyes were clear as winter skies.

“To defy the Divine will and trample Divine grace—that is death,” Maki’s decree landed like iron hail.

Hearing it, Nagash nodded, satisfied as a pilgrim at a shrine; Maki nodded too, heavy as a sealed tomb.

Nagash wanted Stini to see the Divine’s pettiness, like clay feet on a towering idol, and to die here bearing every stain like a black banner.

Only if he died crushed by Divine severity could he become a martyr, a lantern in fog, proving the Divine small and foolish.

Only then could “humanity needs no gods” step from ink to iron, like a vow hammered into steel.

Maki didn’t elaborate; he had spoken much to me only because I might join the Heretic Inquisition, a hook cast into deep water.

Inquisitors never explain; they cut and end, like axes built for winter wood, embodying “necessary evil” as bleak as a northern sea.

Their aim isn’t to trumpet virtue, but to punish evil, to seed fear of “evil” in the heart like a thorn that never rots.

From different shores and for different ends, both chose silence, a coincidence neat as a blade’s edge, like fate’s hidden knot.

So, my dearest Miss Stini, what will you think? My heart thumped like a drum before rain.

If not for my deadpan face, I’d be grinning crooked, like a fox under starlight.

“Wait, I—” she began, her mind still fogged like a morning marsh.

It’s fine; today will carve itself into her bones like chisel marks, and she’ll ponder, slow as moss, yet sure as dawn.

She’ll grow apart from that foolish Hero who worshiped justice of the Divine like a child hugging a paper lantern in wind.

“There’s no need for more,” Maki said. “In the name of the Heretic Inquisition’s Chief, I declare Nagash’s inquest complete. Execution begins,” his voice was a bell of ice.

“Yes, Stini,” Nagash smiled, wind-soft and fire-bright, “will you witness me go as a martyr, bright as fireworks, fading like ash on night air?”

Lightning crawled over his hands like silver vines; he seized Stini’s shoulders, and arcane apparatus whirled around her like stars, lifting her weightless.

She drifted toward me, a leaf in a slow current, helpless to find footing.

“No! Stop!” Her cry broke like a wave on rock.

No scream could halt the duel promised like winter to fall; two duelists bowed to ritual, then drew blades like lightning drawn to iron.

“Repent or not, death will pardon your sin,” Maki intoned, voice low as a funeral bell.

The Liturgy, Chapter Seven, Verse Two, doctrine of the god Death; a mercy cold as snow before the killing stroke.

Every Heretic Inquisitor speaks it before blood is shed, their lone olive branch dropped into a burning sea.

Golden fire blossomed off Nagash, dazzling as noon; electric light stitched itself like constellations across his frame.

Countless tiny parts budded from nothing, flowing in hidden arcs, assembling a menagerie of arcane apparatus like swallows forming a character in the sky.

Raven had studied lost alchemy from the Silver Era, a torch from the Sorcerer Emperor’s forge, using little or no matter like rain conjured from air.

But true arcane craft wasn’t that; though I’m surrounded by monsters who treat lost limbs like torn sleeves and slay Demon Kings like business trips, most folk can’t cast at all.

Even basic spells are cliffs to the many; as the elves say, only “the chosen” among low-tier mortals can touch magic, like rare seeds in poor soil.

The Silver Era spread magic through arcane-engine craft, etching power into things like veins into leaves, so they drink and move on their own.

Inscribe mana into objects, build a spell-form by proxy, let it drink, let it turn, like mills set on a river.

So, an Arcane Engineer with enough tools and materials can use any magic, like a smith with every mold and ore.

Then it’s only judgment—what to cast and when—like a chess-player placing the final stone to topple every foe.

Facing a fully geared Arcane Engineer, Maki didn’t dare blink; holy radiance burst from him like dawn flooding a canyon.

He murmured divine names, each syllable a bead on a rosary of light, and cast Divine Arts that fell like snow on steel.

Interesting, I thought, a peak struggle of mortals, bright as swordplay in rain; concept battles lately have been bland smoke, no crunch of wood and bone.

High-tier Iron Fortification hardened his body like oak layered with iron; Gravity Null lofted him like thistle fluff on a breeze.

The Aerian boon Skystride let him move freely in the air, a swallow riding thermals; dragon-tongue Force Rebound shoved away any strike that touched him like a spring-lashed gate.

Nagash parsed and deployed unique magics of the Primordial Nine Races through arcane craft, a rare flower in a field where most can’t master their own heritage.

Maki layered Authority Smite onto his steel claws, a Divine Art that “absolutely” shatters most lower-tier concepts, like a hammer that ignores grain and knot.

Every Inquisitor raised Wings of Praise on themselves, their speed a white blur like gulls in a gale, even swifter than Nagash’s whirring devices.

Arcane Engineers aren’t built for grapples; their bodies are poor bows, but Nagash moved like a puppeteer pulling silk threads, art steering muscle, art dodging steel.

He slipped past strike after strike, like rain through bamboo, and cast binding spells that snagged limbs like ivy.

But there were many Inquisitors; once they swarmed him like wolves, even a hawk’s wings feel heavy.

A claw snagged his hem—never his flesh—yet Force Rebound shoved the attacker away like a spring snapping, and still Nagash’s body stiffened like ice on a pond.

A seed Divine Art—Spark Transfer—conducted a high-tier Divine Art, Apainte’s Grasp, onto him, locking his motions like frost welding shutters.

Maki sensed the opening like a shark scenting blood, moved faster than any of them, and struck with killing intent sharp as sleet.

His fist was about to punch through Nagash’s skull when an iron wall bulged into being, abrupt as a cliff in fog.

Dwarven boon—Emergent Iron Bulwark—only forms when struck, wrapping the target in a sphere hard as a mountain’s heart.

Even Authority Smite’s “absolute” fracture couldn’t break it outright, like lightning biting granite and finding it stubborn.

If once fails, then twice; if twice fails, then ten times; if ten fails, then a rainstorm of iron, he thought with winter patience.

Half a heartbeat later, fists fell like hail, and the bulwark shattered like an egg—but a nearby arcane apparatus roared, a beast’s bellow that shook the ribs of the world.

The shockwave stunned every Inquisitor in its reach, pinning them like grass in a gust.

Even Maki staggered back a few steps, the sound a physical shove like a wave lifting a boat.

Orc warcry magic—No Death, No Rest—howled like a banner in a gale.

In those scant seconds of stillness, Nagash drove another device to gather lightning, threads of blue swelling like stormclouds fattening.

Light grew until it stabbed the eyes like white-hot steel, then lashed out in a bolt that split the air.

“Move!” Maki roared, voice a drum in thunder—but too late; they had just shaken free of the warcry and took the blast full on, like deer in sudden snow.

Elven leap-magic—Wrathful Lord of Thunder—reworked by Nagash, its ruin turned to paralysis, a net of light thrown over the field.

Only two Inquisitors far from him stayed standing; besides them, only Maki kept his feet, while the ground was littered with bodies stiff as knocked-down reeds.

Maki looked disappointed, a winter face turned toward a meager harvest, at his Inquisitors—and at Nagash.

“Nagash, are you insulting us?” his words were flint on flint.

“Cough… how could I…” Nagash laughed through blood, hand pressed to wounds like a failing dam. “…I don’t have that luxury… cough.”

Three holes gaped in his chest, black-red and fatal, like charcoals punched through parchment.

“In the instant you neared me you landed three knife-hands… cough… Have you stepped into the Godspeed Realm?” His smile was wry as a cut reed.

“I’m a scholar; I don’t grasp Godspeed. That’s cheating,” he added, humor thin as ice.

“You bind me without killing, and you don’t run—what do you want?” Maki asked, puzzled as thunder without rain.

“As you see… to carry my creed,” Nagash said, voice steady as a candle stubborn in wind.

Maki tried to heal, but recovery magics slid off the wounds like rain on oil; blood kept flowing, dark as ink.

High-tier Divine Art—Upright Piercing Light—symbol of unbending light, boosted the strike and branded the wound with “Unhealing,” like salt in a cut.

Seeing he couldn’t mend it, Nagash fixed several devices onto his chest, little beetles of brass, to sustain his life like splints on a cracked beam.

His face stayed pale as paper, but his tone found steel again, not that near-death thin whisper from before.

“Then you should die all the more,” Maki said, a brow creasing like a stormline. “If your heart’s already set on death, why cling to life?”

“Because, my kin,” Nagash said, eyes bright as coals, “I won’t fight you, won’t stain my hands with my own blood.”

“If those lofty Divine judge me wicked, yet won’t save the weak or punish the vile, then I’ll defy death and prove their error by my breath,” his vow rang like iron struck true.

Nagash remained unrepentant, a rock in a river, worn but unbowed.

…Or perhaps, to hold a conviction this far, to press it past death like a banner through ash—compared to us, so easy to sway—maybe he is the one who’s right.